


Frayed Ends

by jellyfishline



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Pre-Series, Sam POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2018-02-23 03:37:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2532668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellyfishline/pseuds/jellyfishline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the list of priorities, ‘comfortable footwear for Sam’ fits squarely between ‘talking to friends’ and ‘applying for college’—i.e. things no one gives two shits about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frayed Ends

Sam’s shoelaces keep coming untied.

In the grand scheme of things, it’s not that upsetting. He shouldn’t be upset. But he is. He’s got thirty pounds of textbook strapped to his back and more than a mile to walk back to the crappy motel Dad picked out a week ago and he has to keep stopping every five steps because of the crappy cheap shoelaces with fraying ends and no aglets and there are blisters on his heel from his crappy second-hand shoes that didn’t fit when he got them and sure as hell don’t fit now and his shoes keep slipping half-off and rubbing just the right way to send spikes of pain across his whole foot.

Sam is upset. He’s upset and heading straight into pissed off—the kind of foul mood that makes him want to strip the nails out of drywall and carve scars into the earth and start a revolution or a war or the kind of fistfight Dean’s always getting in. Though realistically he knows it’ll only end with him stewing in his own juices for a few hours while the world goes on without him, or maybe a four-hour dead-end shouting match with Dad. The kind that makes him want to claw out of his skin in a different way.

The worst part is that he knows he’s being ridiculous. Moods like this deserve an actual cause—at least, a cause more impressive than a bad pair of shoes. A terrible, terrible pair of shoes. That he’s going to have to wear well into the foreseeable future because on the list of priorities, ‘comfortable footwear for Sam’ fits squarely between ‘talking to friends’ and ‘applying for college’—i.e. things no one gives two shits about.

This school isn’t really impressive, is better than the last only because it’s clear someone actually cleans the bathrooms here more than once a year, and Sam hasn’t made any friends or really endeared himself to any of the teachers because he’s started to get very fatalistic about his chances of ever seeing anyone he’s ever talked to in any capacity ever again—but this school does have one thing that the last didn’t, and that’s a teacher who is absolutely determined to remind Sam of college at every possible opportunity. Not only does she routinely address the whole class about the importance of picking a college and a degree and a whole rock-solid life plan but she also cornered Sam last Wednesday to say that despite the frequent absences and transfers, his grades and extra-curricular activities are strong enough to make him a good candidate for applications and scholarships, provided that he ‘get his foot in the door as soon as possible.’

Sam had to listen and nod and pretend to consider as someone took ten minutes out of their day just to reassure him that no matter obstacles he faced, he could still get a real education. And none of it is going to matter. Because Dad said no.

Sam’s tried every angle. Every way of bringing up the subject. He’s been subtle. Direct. He’s stuck to his guns. He’s tried to compromise. He’s made himself so mad he actually left Dad mid-sentence once to avoid putting his fist through something—and he paid for it later, but at least he didn’t get to see what Dad would do if he hit first. He’s been scared to his bones and sick to his stomach and every awful stinging nasty emotion he’s never wanted to feel. He’s run the gamut, and now he’s crossing the finish line on the worst one of them all: he’s resigned.

There’s no way out of this problem. He’s tied up in a knot and the only possible solution would be to cut the strings.

Dean’s at the motel when Sam finally stomps his way in.

“Hey, squirt,” he says, not looking away from the fuzzy TV screen he’s squinting at. Looks like one of his dumb cowboy movies.

“Y’know I’m not that much shorter than you,” Sam says, kicking off his shoes.

“Yeah, but you’re a skinny little toothpick, so it still counts.”

The screen goes fuzzier. Dean bangs the side of it.

In the light of late afternoon mid-February in the upper Midwest, the familiar image looks strange, ghostly. And maybe it should be. College or not, they can’t really live like this forever. Things have to change. Don’t they?

Sam sets down his bag. “Hey—”

“Yeah?” Dean looks up. “What’s up?”

Sam can feel the shape of the words in his mouth, but he can’t seem to get them past his lips. “Nothing. Nevermind.”

Dean squints at him. “You sure? You got that little black raincloud look on your face. You aren’t coming down with that flu been going around, are you?”

“No,” Sam shakes his head. And then blurts out, “Can I—can I ask you something?”

“You just did, but yeah.” Dean smirks. “Shoot.”

“If there was something—if you had something that really mattered to you, like really mattered, and you had a limited time to get it and everyone was standing in your way and, and you’re probably crazy just for wanting it, but you think you got a chance if you really tried, what would you do? Would you fight for it?”

Dean looks at him, long and hard, for a long, hard, silent moment. Then he says, “This about a girl?”

“No,” Sam says. Sighs. “It doesn’t matter. It’s hypothetical.”

“So it’s about college,” Dean says.

Sam glares.

“You really oughta give that shit up, man. You heard what Dad said. And anyway, we don’t got that kinda money.”

“There are these things called ‘scholarships’ Dean, look them up sometime,” Sam snaps, before he can stop himself. “And maybe I don’t care what Dad thinks. Maybe—maybe I just don’t give a damn.”

He really just said that. That really just came out of his mouth. He wouldn’t believe it if it weren’t for the giddy/terrified rumble in his gut, the high tilt of Dean’s eyebrows.

He waits for Dean to argue. To yell. To get defensive. To call him selfish. To laugh it off. To give him a hug. A punch to the gut. Something. Anything. Dean just stares at him.

“You’re really fucking serious,” Dean says, like he thought all of Sam’s arguing fighting beating his fists against the world up to this point had been for show.

“Yeah.” Sam breathes, surprised when it comes out steadier than he feels. “I am.”

“Oh. Okay.” Dean blinks at the TV. “That’s—that’s pretty fucking—I. Okay.”

Sam feels his stomach drop into something like disappointment. And he doesn’t know why. Except that this non-reaction is somehow worse than anything his brain could drum up in its place.

“I—I’m gonna—gonna go out for a bit,” Dean says.

“Dean, Dad has the car—”

“Then I’ll walk,” Dean snaps, teeth gritted. “There’s food in the fridge, so don’t—just, be here when I get back. Okay?"

“Okay,” Sam says, but Dean’s already slamming the door behind him.

There’ve been times, once or twice, when Sam’s allowed himself to hope that Dean isn’t mad or sad or disappointed by how much Sam wants out, that if he ever sat Dean down and explained to him how much he wants to go to college, Dean would nod and smile and understand somehow, in some way.

But apparently not.

Dean doesn’t want to talk about it. And even if he did, he’d never understand. Dean might be fine with their life as it is, but Sam isn’t. He never was and he never will be.

Dean will always be going out, on hunts, on errands, to bars, to diners, to wherever he wants—he’ll always expect Sam to be ten years old, staying back and waiting for him to come home. He thinks Sam will get content someday, just accept that life is how it is, no changing. He doesn’t realize that Sam isn’t getting complacent, he’s just getting closer and closer to suffocated.

He has to go.

No matter the cost, he has to go.

And not for an evening. Not for a walk. He’s not coming back this time.

He’s taking the knot and he’s cutting the strings.

There are worse things in the world to live with than a couple frayed ends.


End file.
